


the brave and the bold

by susanpevensie (steelthighsvoideyes)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-23 08:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21317032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelthighsvoideyes/pseuds/susanpevensie
Summary: Just another typical night in the lives of Enbarr's resident defenders of good and justice, the Fist of Justice and the Sun Knight.aka: Caspar von Bergliez and Ferdinand von Aegir.chapter 2: epilogue ft. Druid, aka Petra Macneary.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Ferdinand von Aegir & Caspar von Bergliez, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 17
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came from Ferdinand and Caspar's B support where they declare themselves partners in defending justice. I was so inspired I created a whole superhero AU, complete with worldbuilding across Fodlan. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Enbarr is a city of many things. One of industry, technology, art, and trade. A city looked upon by many as not only the jewel of Adrestia, but a gem amongst all of Fódlan, glinting with the light of the rising sun in a manner that puts all in a state of awe. The world famous Mittelfrank Opera House towers elegantly over the harbor, carving out the rest of the city’s skyline that is iconic enough to be found on t-shirts sold to tourists at every street corner. 

It is a city worth protecting and one that is protected. 

* * *

The Fist of Justice pummels through the street, still brightly lit and crowded with pedestrians. Despite the hour approaching 11pm, most folks are just now heading out and businesses give no indication of closing any time soon, some only just now opening. Enbarr is a city thrumming with activity that only seems to quiet once the trains have stopped running in the wee hours of the morning.

While the nightlife of Enbarr is usually a vision to behold, the Fist of Justice finds that the teeming city is only slowing the pursuit of his goal. So he leaps up onto the pole of the nearest streetlamp, tucks in his body as he throws all his momentum to the balls of his feet, and launches himself up in a daring arc right into the middle of the busy street. As with almost everything he does, he prays his gambit pays off, then successfully sticks his landing on the roof of a passing car. There are a few “oooohs” and cheers from the civilians who witness the feat, which the Fist of Justice acknowledges with a holler and a wave with the hand that isn’t carrying his takeout dinner. 

Then he turns his full concentration to his balance on the still moving car and proceeds to sprint in the same direction the car is driving, jumping onto the roof of the pickup truck right in front of it. He continues this endeavor, using his own momentum to propel his body from car to car, landing on each with a  _ thump,  _ but with a controlled enough force that he doesn’t leave a dent. 

He grins to himself as he commends his own genius. He’s already much closer to his destination than he had been two minutes ago. 

A sharp battle cry like that of an eagle streaking across the sky echoes throughout the busy street and stirs the Fist of Justice out of his thoughts. It’s a sound that strikes fear into the hearts of all enemies, but instills the comfort of relief in the hearts of allies--one that the Fist of Justice is quite acquainted with. 

He keeps his pace, now using muscle memory to navigate the vehicle rooftops, and cranes his neck to catch sight of a familiar silhouette. 

He spots her just up ahead and several stories above him, swinging through the concrete jungle on vines that seem to extend from all across the city, only to shrink back to whence they came once she completes her arc and throws herself to the next one. 

The Fist of Justice will never be able to shake his awe at her ability to call upon nature in such a way, even in a place as urban as Enbarr. Though the population seems to have enough of a fascination with windowsill gardening for the other to make do just fine. 

Picking up his pace, the Fist of Justice cups his hands around his mouth and bellows,

_ “HEY! DRUID!”  _

The swinging figure slows to a perch on one of the many balconies facing the street, then swoops into a dive, calling on the branch of a nearby tree to wrap around her wrist and catch her as she loops around a street lamp to keep pace with him. 

“Hello, my friend!” she exclaims over the bustle of traffic and the wind rushing past the two of them as they continue down the street. 

The city lights illuminate Druid’s cheerful face, her brown skin glowing and fuschia hair whipping elegantly in the wind. She is the embodiment of the Earth in a city of concrete and steel that touch the sky. 

“Fancy seeing you ‘round here,” the Fist of Justice greets, grinning widely, domino mask crinkling almost uncomfortably at his eyes. “Brigid pretty quiet tonight, or what?” 

Druid launches herself up to the wall of the nearest building, then pushes off and lets go of her branch to land on the roof of the car the Fist of Justice has just hopped onto. The Fist of Justice crouches low as he lands to slow his momentum and transfer the rest of his kinetic energy to potential energy. It is, after all, much easier to carry a conversation face to face. 

Druid readjusts her mask across her cheekbones as she nods in response to the question. 

“Yes, all is well in Brigid at the moment. There was a man who was trying to steal a woman’s purse and run away earlier, but he was no match for me!”

“Poor guy,” the Fist of Justice chuckles. “He didn’t stand a chance. Did ya get any more action on this side? Or did I beat you to all the fun and that’s why you’re already heading back to Brigid?”

Or, well, that’s where he figures she’s headed given that they were both making their way towards the direction of the harbor. Brigid is the largest of the harbor islands scattered off the coast of Enbarr and the only one with a population big enough to maintain themselves as independent from the Adrestian metropolis. But not so big as to have a crime rate that keeps its sole superhero, Druid, busy. It’s not uncommon, then, on nights like these to catch her swinging alongside Enbarr’s own vigilantes. 

  
  


The Fist of Justice will never admit it out loud, but he’s appreciative of the nights Druid comes by to help out. Despite Enbarr’s sprawling population, the city hosts only two (three at one point, but one decided the life wasn’t for him and now spends his days lounging on several feather pillows in the Fist of Justice’s apartment) operating superheroes, the Fist of Justice being one of them. 

Adrestia has a complicated relationship with superheroes, thus making it quite difficult to break into the business. Superheroes have always been legal; but due to the grim occurrences in neighboring Faerghus, the Adrestian government had become weary and established a rigid system of superhero qualifications, background checks, and formal registration to regulate the balance between supers and civilians. 

Though the Fist of Justice is known for having unrealistic amounts of energy, even he feels the strain of the responsibility. 

“You did not beat me at anything,” Druid huffs. “I just now kicked the butts of five car thieves while you were ordering burgers.” 

She gestures at the large takeout bag in the Fist of Justice’s hand. 

“Hey! A guy’s gotta eat!” he exclaims. “How else am I supposed to catch all the other bad guys when you leave?” 

Druid laughs and shakes her head. Around them, the traffic has begun to notice the two of them casually standing atop a moving taxi, and honks of admiration and annoyance fill the air. 

“Well, there is still some time before I leave Enbarr for the night. You were heading towards the harbor, yes? Come, I will take you. It will be much faster.”

Before the Fist of Justice can question exactly what she means, an enlarged vine of ivy creeping up the side of a nearby building slides around her wrist. She quickly gathers the Fist of Justice by the waist, undeterred by their height difference, and launches them both back into the air at the pace she had previously been soaring. 

The Fist of Justice yelps at the sudden loss of ground and clings to Druid and his takeout bag as best he can as she lets out another habitual battle cry. 

“So if you’re not headed back home, then where’re you goin’?” the Fist of Justice asks when he’s finally comfortable with Druid’s rhythm. 

“The Mittelfrank Opera House! I have...heard many great things and would like to see for myself,” she replies. The Fist of Justice sees her cheeks bloom with a shade of color a bit lighter than her magenta mask, but he figures it’s from the exertion of having to carry an extra person. 

“That’s cool!” he says. “I’ve never been, but I’m not really an opera person.”

“And you?” Druid asks. “Where shall I leave you? I assume you are meeting with the Sun Knight.”

“Oh! Yeah!” the Fist of Justice exclaims, only now realizing that he’d completely forgotten his original goal. “I was headed to the docks. He’s got a stakeout set up and I promised him I’d grab dinner.” 

Druids gives a firm nod of acknowledgement and begins to change directions, heading slightly east. “The docks it shall be then.” 

It’s not long before the harbor comes into view, the city lights glittering across the peaceful water. The docks, unlike the main streets, are quiet at this hour. Fishing and leisure boats of all sizes are huddled in numerous rows along one portion of the dock while the rest boasts immense cargo vessels and ocean liners. Opposite them, on land, are the large warehouses where the heavy steel crates from these carriers are sorted by company and product once unloaded at the dock. 

The pair of vigilantes land on the roof of one of these warehouses, and the Fist of Justice is grateful to stand on his own two feet again. Somewhere deep within the city, an old clock tower announces the 11th hour of night with its deep bell. 

“Oh! I must get going. The show will be starting now,” Druid starts. “Give the Sun Knight my greetings and call me if you need anything!”

“ _ HAVE A GOOD TIME AT THE OPERA,”  _ the Fist of Justice bellows as she swings off the warehouse roof and up the harbor line towards the opera house. 

Now alone once more, he turns back to the task at hand. Using the pent up potential energy from earlier, he parkours down the side of the warehouse and jumps down to the ground with a soft grunt. 

Using the instructions the Sun Knight had texted him earlier that evening, the Fist of Justice finds himself in front of a large and nondescript van parked in the shadows of a slim alleyway between two warehouses. He knocks a pattern that is basically muscle memory at this point onto the heavily tinted rear windows and waits for a response. 

He hears shuffling and then a muffled voice. 

“Yes?” 

“It is I, the Fist of Justice!” he cries as obnoxiously as he can to pass his partner’s silly authentication ritual. There aren’t many, if any at all, who can imitate the sheer gusto of his demeanor. 

The van’s rear double doors open to reveal a spacious interior with a whole portable surveillance lab set up and a man in an orange mask, with an equally warm colored supersuit to boot. It stands out like a beacon in the darkness, which the other must realize because he quickly ushers the Fist of Justice inside. 

“It’s about time, Caspar! I was starting to think you’d gotten lost again,” the Sun Knight exclaims, removing his mark and frowning once they’re both safely inside. His usually cascading ginger hair is pulled back into a loose braid. Caspar figures it’s been a relatively uneventful stakeout so far.

“Hey! That was one time, okay?” Caspar huffs and holds out his bag of burgers. “I promised dinner and I never go back on my word.”

The Sun Knight takes the bag with a groan of delight and reaches into it. “Thank heavens, I was  _ starving. _ ”

“You should thank Druid for giving me a ride then,” Caspar says, grasping for his own dinner. His stomach expresses its anticipation with a fearsome growl. 

“Petra was in town? Shame I didn’t get to see her,” the other replies in dismay. He shoulders past Caspar and towards one of the chairs in front of the surveillance equipment. 

“Yeah, but she seemed busy. She  _ really  _ wants to go see the opera, apparently.”

Caspar lumbers over to the second chair next to his partner’s and peels off his domino mask, setting it aside as he prepares to dig into his meal. 

“Ah,” the Sun Knight remarks with a knowing sort of smirk as he carefully takes his burger apart and applies a packet of mayonnaise. “I hear our dear Dorothea is performing as the lead tonight. Petra must be ecstatic to see her.”

Caspar only hums given that his mouth is now occupied with a large chunk of burger. He swallows after barely chewing, prompting the other to toss him a look of judgement. It’s one he gets quite often from more than one person. 

“Hey, why do you keep doing that?” he asks once his mouth is free. 

“Doing what?” 

“Calling us by our secret identities while we’re on duty? That’s totally dangerous! And you’re the one always lecturing me about how we need to keep a low profile at all times.”

Which, to any third party, would appear incredibly ironic considering one of them has a shock of bright blue hair--a color that made its way into his costume as well--while the other dresses as radiant as the sun, true to his superhero epithet. 

“I’ve been sitting here for three hours, Caspar. I know for a fact that no one is around to hear your real name. Or mine for that matter,” the Sun Knight says, looking thoughtful. “Besides, how else should I acknowledge my friends as dear to me if not by showing that I see them as more than their superhero persona?” 

Caspar takes in his partner’s words, then pouts. He really wouldn’t have minded being called the Fist of Justice twenty-four-seven, but...

“Well, when you put it that way  _ Ferdinand,  _ I guess that makes sense.”

Ferdinand beams like he’s been awarded the highest of honors, then bites into his own burger. 

“Guessing it’s been a pretty quiet night, huh?” Caspar asks, nodding in the direction of the obnoxiously large headphones hooked up to a scanner of sorts that Ferdinand has set aside. 

From what he can remember of the briefing Ferdinand gave him a few days ago, their mission is to intercept smugglers from Faerghus disguised as Leicester merchants. Customs at Daphnel’s border had marked suspicious activity, and their movement was monitored across Leicester before it was determined that their end goal was the Adrestian harbor. 

This isn’t exactly uncommon. The historical tensions between Adrestia and Faerghus had always put a damper on their trade relations, with periods of high tariffs, bans on certain goods, and complete embargos. Leicester, however, had much friendlier borders with both nations; so though the journey was much longer, there were always an unsavory few groups who tried to use the situation to their advantage. 

Which is why Leicester’s supers took to passing on tips to Ferdinand and Caspar instead of dealing with it on their own. The country had an implicit policy of keeping its hands clear of anything related to Adrestian/Faerghan politics. 

Caspar thinks it’s a bit of a cop out, truth be told. 

Ferdinand hums in affirmation and dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin. 

“So far, yes. But I have it on good authority that we can expect our Faerghan friends to dock tonight. A little birdie told me they left Ordelia’s port earlier today.” 

Caspar perks up at that. 

“Ladybird—I mean, Marianne—was here today?” 

“She was!” Ferdinand confirms. “In fact, you only just missed her. She left to return to Edmund about an hour ago.” 

“Aw man,” Caspar laments. “I feel like I haven’t seen her in forever!” 

“That’s what I told her!” Ferdinand says. “I asked to stay a while longer and perhaps help us round up these smugglers, but it seems she’s been assigned night watch with the Edmund Mountaineering Force for the week.”

“Camping out in the mountains at night with your coworkers, huh? Sounds way more fun than being stuck with you in a van,” Caspar teases. 

Ferdinand huffs at that. 

“You hush. I know you’d lose your marbles if you had to do this alone,” he retorts. “Besides, while I’m sure it’s quite enjoyable to work aside many colleagues, I doubt one has the flexibility for more independent projects like this.”

Which is true. Superheroes are legal and widely accepted in Leicester society. However, due to cultural ideology and its relatively decentralized governing system compared to Adrestia and Faerghus, the regions of Leicester maintain some variation of community policing instead of an established law enforcement institution. Local citizens are all rotationally employed to contribute to the safety of their communities, saving each region the necessity of further oversight and bureaucratic checks and balances from the federal level. 

Anyone wishing to operate as a superhero in Leicester is then drafted to the municipal force as a public asset, serving in the roles of guide and protector. The upside is that it’s technically a full time job, so superheroes are paid for their services. The downside is that they can’t really undertake things like stakeouts without the community’s consent. 

“Hm. It still woulda been nice if she stayed and helped, though,” Caspar mumbles, slouching a bit as he takes another bite of his burger. 

Ferdinand raises a fine eyebrow, bright eyes glinting with amusement. 

“Oh? What of your all your boasts of taking on all the bad guys on your own?” he teases, nudging Caspar’s shoes with his boot playfully. “Don’t tell me you’re getting too old for this already, my friend.”

“I’m not old!” Caspar quickly exclaims to protect his dignity. “I’m just saying more help would be nice so we can get home a bit sooner. Get a few more hours of shut-eye before the day job and all that, ya know?”

Ferdinand definitely knows, but it’s still not a sentiment one would ever expect to hear from  _ Caspar,  _ the guy who never seems to turn off. Particularly when there are villains to beat up. 

The answer, however, dawns on Ferdinand not long after when he sees his friend chewing on his bottom lip deep in thought. 

“Ah. Is everything okay with you and Linhardt?”

“Yeah, of course! Everything’s great! Well, for the most part,” Caspar answers, slouching some more. “It’s just that ever since he...retired from being a superhero last year, he gets cranky whenever I come home really late. Last time I came back at 3am after getting hit in the head—it was only a scratch, okay!—and he just...healed it and didn’t speak for the rest of the night.”

Caspar sighs dejectedly. 

“I know we’re both busy and don’t get a lot of time with each other, but it’s not like crime ever sleeps! I thought he’d get that better than anyone, being a former superhero and all. Anyway, I think I’m gonna be exiled to the couch if I don’t try harder to come home sooner.”

Ferdinand listens intently, then wordlessly reached over to pat Caspar on the knee in comfort. Linhardt may be his friend and also married to his partner in fighting crime, but Ferdinand acknowledges that he is a mysterious one. 

“He’s probably still just adjusting to the quiet life and is bored without you. Even he cannot sleep for twenty-four hours a day! I’m sure he’ll come around.”

Caspar remains silent for a few more seconds before sucking in a deep breath, puffing up his cheeks in that very habitual manner of his, and sitting right back up in his seat. 

“So!” he almost shouts, eager to change the topic. “You think Hubert’s gonna be here tonight? Since it’s the Faerghans and all.

Ah yes, Hubert. Also known as  _ The Shadow.  _ Caspar and Ferdinand are pretty sure the dark and mysterious man who sometimes shows up on their missions is also a super, but he only ever operates on Mayor Hresvelg’s orders. There are always two facets of politics, and the vigilante pair have come to know Hubert as the one who takes care of the dirty work before it makes its way to the public eye, like potential attempts at Faerghan sabotage. So while the three of them  _ usually  _ end up being on the same side of things, they’re not really friends or even colleagues. They’re just used to each other.

“Why do you always assume I know if Hubert will show on a mission?” Ferdinand asks, folding his arms in an imperiously indignant way that tells Caspar his diversion tactic had been successful. 

“Uh, because you always somehow know where he is,” Caspar replies, leaning back in his seat and tossing his feet onto Ferdinand’s little surveillance desk. 

“I do not!” Ferdinand contests. Caspar can’t tell if it’s the dim lighting, or if his friend’s cheeks really did darken a little. 

“Oh yeah?” he challenges. “Hey Ferdinand, where’s Hubert right now?”

“Hiding in the chimney of Warehouse 5,” Ferdinand answers almost immediately. Then his eyes widen as he catches his mistake and he immediately turns away from Caspar, towards his forgotten surveillance equipment. “And that’s besides the point! It’s not  _ my  _ fault he’s just not as good at hiding as he thinks he is.”

He shoves the gigantic headphones back on his head with an excessive bit of force to render the topic closed for discussion, and all Caspar can think as he cackles at his friend’s reaction is how Ferdinand is never allowed to call him dense again. 

The two of them settle into a comfortable silence after that--well, a relative silence. It’s never truly quiet with Caspar around. Even if he isn’t talking, he’s always moving, always fidgeting with the restless energy that never seems to leave his body. All he can do is move it around until some part of his body gets tired, then transfer it elsewhere. Currently, he’s pushed it down to the soles of his feet, his bright blue and white streaked sneakers drumming against the edge of the desk in an absentminded rhythm. He knows it had bothered Ferdinand at one point, but he’d gotten used it over the years. Now his friend barely flinches, steeled with a concentration Caspar has never had in his life. 

That’s why they make such a good pair. 

It’s another hour or so before Ferdinand jerks his head up, a determined grin lighting up his features. 

“They’re here.”

“Where?” Caspar asks, shooting out of his seat immediately. If he’d been any taller, he’d have hit his head quite painfully against the metal roof of the van. 

“Dock 17. It’s the same vessel Marianne told me to look for,” Ferdinand replies, squaring his shoulders and tying his mask back across his face. He hands Caspar his previously discarded domino mask before standing. “We have the element of surprise, so let’s keep it as long as we can.” 

“Right,” Caspar nods, slipping his mask back onto his nose. He spreads the energy thin across his body so that it’s a low hum instead of a crackle, then follows Ferdinand as he opens the van’s back door and heads out into the inky night. 

The two of them prowl across the shipyard, sticking close to the shadows of the various cargo crates and unloading equipment. When they reach Dock 17, Ferdinand crouches behind a forklift and signals for Caspar to do the same. In this position, they both have a decent enough view of the recently docked cargo boat marked with the Leicester coat of arms and the dark silhouettes disembarking from it. 

“Our best chance is to catch them while they’re too occupied to draw their weapons. Their cargo looks heavy enough, so if they’re smart, they won’t drop it immediately to defend themselves,” Ferdinand whispers. “That should buy us enough time to strike and end this quickly enough. Perhaps even before Hubert has to intervene.”

He almost preens with smugness at that last bit, and Caspar just rolls his eyes. 

“Works for me,” Caspar replies, and Ferdinand moves to cover his mouth out of instinct. Caspar’s never been great at keeping his voice down, and Ferdinand has learned to accommodate. Caspar, too, is used to this. 

“Hey, how about I climb that crane hovering over Dock 18? That way, I can take ‘em from the top while you come in from the side,” he suggests. 

“Splendid idea, Caspar!” Ferdinand hums in agreement. “But do it  _ quietly. _ We don’t know what kind of weapons these people have brought with them today.”

Caspar nods in confident affirmation, then stalks off on his own to position himself as he’d proposed. While the whole “staying quiet” thing certainly can be a nuisance--especially considering he’s pretty sure he can handle himself just fine if caught--Caspar understands Ferdinand’s extreme caution in this case. The Faerghans are known to be well prepared when it comes to facing supers. They’d been legal in Faerghus until about a decade ago, when a few took advantage of the power imbalance they had over other civilians and attempted a coup. 

Since then, supers had been outlawed and civilians obligated to meet a government-mandated standard of self defense. As time went on, private institutions invested quite a lot of time and money in alternative methods to combat supers under the guise of civilian protection. What these research projects often resulted in, however, were weapons capable of rendering supers prone, even if for a few seconds. 

Ferdinand and Caspar had encountered these a few times in the past, and while they certainly make their foes more formidable, the career vigilantes are not to be underestimated. 

Still...it’s probably a good thing Hubert’s loitering around tonight as well. 

Caspar manages to reach his destination successfully and perches at the very top of the crane, thrumming with excitement and adrenaline. He observes the smugglers below, unable to catch what they’re saying as they pass each other crates off the ship, forming a human assembly line of sorts. At one point, he spots a bottleneck--one of the crew members stumbles under a particularly heavy crate--and immediately looks to Ferdinand behind the forklift. 

Ferdinand catches his eye and nods. Two seconds later, he’s barging out of his hiding spot, a bright beam of golden light in the shape of a lance quickly shaping from the ever-present ring on his right hand. Caspar knows it to be his friend’s preferred construct, though he’s seen the sunlight stored in the ring manifest into a hand axe, a hand and a half sword, and various other obscure medieval weapons he’s never heard of before because Ferdinand is a total nerd.

Following Ferdinand’s lead, Caspar thrusts all his potential energy into the balls of his feet, then leaps off the crane and dives down onto their targets with a loud battle cry. 

The smugglers are visibly startled by the two-front assault and quickly try to sound an alarm without harming themselves with their own cargo. 

Caspar lands right on the shoulders of one of them, grinning as he bounces off and smashes the guy in the face with his elbow. 

“You can’t escape the Fist of Justice!” he shouts gleefully and turns around to face the next guy coming at him. 

He can hear Ferdinand groaning at the corny line behind him while he thrusts his lance into some poor sucker’s shoulder. The two of them have fought alongside each other enough times over the years to slip easily into a familiar rhythm. Sometimes it feels like it’s the one thing that’s absolutely certain in their lives, knowing that the other will always have their backs. 

And it’s a relatively easy fight. Ferdinand’s plan to catch the smugglers off guard works spectacularly, and the two of them have rounded everyone up in a matter of minutes, no anti-super weapons involved. 

Well, almost everyone. 

As it turns out, there were quite a few crew members still on board when Caspar and Ferdinand struck who had heard the cries of their comrades. Caspar turns around and curses when he sees three men leap off the boat, batons sparking with electricity in their hands. He braces himself in a fighting pose, and Ferdinand does the same beside him. Ferdinand’s hair is now undone from its braid and cascading around his already bright supersuit. 

A fourth man with a baton jumps down to join the rest of the crew, and Ferdinand spares a few curses under his breath as well. 

“You look like you may be in a little over your heads,” a sly voice remarks behind them. 

Ferdinand and Caspar both whip around to face a figure foreboding enough in a black, high-collared cape that the advancing Faerghans seem to think twice. 

“Hu--I see you’ve decided to show!” Ferdinand exclaims, barely hiding his content at the other man’s presence, though he does manage to catch himself before spilling Hubert’s name. “Not that you needed to. The Fist of Justice and I clearly are handling it just fine.”

Caspar always finds Ferdinand’s challenging words towards Hubert so funny considering he’s so obviously happy to see the guy. 

Hubert also looks amused. 

“Clearly,” he states, eyes shifting to glare pointedly at the baton-wielding smugglers. 

Ferdinand opens his mouth to contest, but Caspar interjects. 

“You guys know I’m all for you two duking it out whenever, but can we save it for later this time? I  _ really  _ need to get home soon.”

This grabs Ferdinand’s attention, who twirls his lance construct in his hands and settles into a fighting stance. 

“May the best man win, then,” he declares, before charging one of the Faerghans head on. 

Caspar punches his fist into the air with a  _ “hell yeah” _ and does the exact same before he can hear Hubert chastise the both of them for their foolishness. 

The Faerghan smugglers certainly know how to brandish those electric batons; but their movements are slow and laborious, which gives someone like Hubert--more versed in stealth and agility than brute force--the ability to take on two of the smaller men at the same time while Caspar and Ferdinand spar with the two stronger ones. 

Whatever upperhand the Faerghans had is soon nullified. Caspar is the first to render his foe incapacitated, knocking him out with hardened fist to the nose that probably felt like ramming into ten brick walls. The guy’s is sure to have a concussion when he wakes in his cell. 

Hubert successfully disorients his opponents and strikes one in the back of the head with the butt of one of his knives that he seems to carry up his sleeves at all times. He then wraps his hand around the other’s mouth, a dark purple haze seeping from his palms, and renders him prone on the cobbled shipyard. 

Ferdinand quickly follows suit, disarming the most deft electric baton wielder with an impressive display of lancemanship. As soon as the weapon is out of the man’s hands, Ferdinand sends it careening into the still waters with his lance, then swoops down to deliver a low kick to the ankles. The smuggler tumbles onto his back and lays there, pinned in the chest with a heavy red—sorry, as Ferdinand insists,  _ blood orange _ —boot. 

When Ferdinand looks up, breathless but exhilarated and beaming with a side of battle lust, he immediately looks to Hubert. This is a recent development of his—a bad habit, if you will. To search out Hubert on nights like these to see if he was watching. Of course, it’s to prove his capability and ensure the other doesn’t doubt him! There’s truly no other reason. 

And Hubert, for all intents and purposes, always looks back. Just as he does now, the faintest of smiles curling across his lips that only Ferdinand can catch in the luminescence of his sunlight lance. 

Caspar lets the two of them have their weird little moment and busies himself with tying up his bad guy to one of the dock posts. 

Which leaves all of them too distracted to notice one of Hubert’s foes, the one with the hit to the head, reach for his discarded electric baton and jab it into Hubert’s right thigh. 

Hubert, to his credit, only lets out a groan through clenched teeth despite the amount of pain that clearly races through his body. His skin turns ashen, knees quivering violently then buckling. Time seems to simultaneously speed up and slow down for the other two vigilantes, taking half a second before either registers exactly what has just happened. 

They then move forward in sync, not needing to spare any thought as to what to do next. 

Ferdinand deconstructs his lance with a flick of his fingers and kneels to catch Hubert before the other man crumples to the ground. Caspar launches himself at the attacker, packing all of his energy into his right fist to serve the guy the most devastating knuckle sandwich to the solar plexus. 

The guy falls back wheezing as a few ribs shatter, and Caspar follows through to make sure he really is down for the count this time. 

When Caspar turns back around, he’s met with the sight of a paler-than-usual Hubert clutching his leg and gritting his teeth as he tries to control his breathing, cradled in Ferdinand’s arms. 

“Fer—I’m fine,” Hubert grinds out, sucking in his breath sharply when he tried to move his leg to prove a point. 

“Nonsense,” Ferdinand admonishes. “You look like a wraith, more so than normal.” 

He smirks at that bit and brushes Hubert’s bangs from how now clammy face in an almost tender manner. “Try to focus on breathing, okay?”

Ferdinand lifts his head to look at Caspar, his brow furrowed through his mask. 

“Can you make sure to bind the rest of them? I’ll try to help him stand so we can leave the area before tipping off the police.” 

Caspar nods and completes his assigned task quickly. He’s had very few words since Hubert fell—it’s been quite some time since he’s witnessed any of his allies injured to the point of incapacitation. The realization that none of them are invincible hits him like a bucket of ice cold water to the face. Perhaps one he’s sorely needed for a while now. 

As soon as he’s sure none of the smugglers will be going anywhere, he rushes over to Ferdinand and Hubert, trying his best to stay the quelling panic. Hubert is now breathing more evenly than he had been before, jaw no longer painfully clenched as he rests his head wearily against Ferdinand’s chest. 

Suddenly, all the words Caspar didn’t have before bubble up his throat and spill over. 

“Are you okay? Will he be okay? I can carry him to the hospital if we need too, I—“ 

“Caspar,” Ferdinand interjects, voice firm. “It will be alright. I’ll take care of it. You should head home.”

“But—are you sure? I can help! I can’t just leave you guys like this,” Caspar protests.

“You’ve helped more than enough, Caspar,” Ferdinand assures in a soft and fond tone, gesturing with his chin to all the now unconscious Faerghans tied to various items across Dock 17. “And I don’t think the couch is going to feel very comfortable tonight.”

He gives Caspar a pointed look, aware that his friend has likely forgotten their earlier conversation in the heat of battle. And he’s not wrong. The tips of Caspar’s ears bloom a bright red. 

“Oh  _ shit _ , you’re right,” Caspar exclaims, glancing every which way to catch the time before realizing there isn’t a clock in sight. He can only hope he’s not too late. 

“Are you sure?” he asks again, chewing his bottom lip at his internal conflict. Rationally, he knows Ferdinand is more than capable to take care of Hubert, but it’s hard to convince himself that leaving his friends when one of them is hurt is the right thing to do. 

Ferdinand nods, and the look in his amber eyes is one that Caspar is intimately familiar with. One that he and his friend have shared a countless number of times throughout their years together. 

_ Trust me.  _

So Caspar does. 

As he makes his retreat across the docks, leaping across the various stacked crates and still machinery to save time, Caspar spares a last look over his shoulder at the incredibly unlikely pair. Hubert almost blends in with the night, only his pallid skin standing out in the moonlight. Ferdinand, on the other hand, is like a warm flame in the dark, hunched protectively over the other man. 

The expression painting Ferdinand’s face, so open that one can discern it despite the mask, tugs at Caspar’s gut. There’s something about it that he can’t quite place. As if he’s seen it before. Seen it many times before, though not directed at Hubert. No it’s—

It’s the same expression Linhardt wears when he wakes to Caspar sneaking through their apartment’s bedroom window at the crack of dawn. When Caspar comes home with way more scratches and bruises than he has explanations for. When Linhardt maintains a cool healing wave around Caspar’s head as he wretches into the toilet due to the concussion he sustained taking on six bank robbers at once. 

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

* * *

Ferdinand watches Caspar exit the docks, his movement as explosive as always, before he turns his head back to Hubert. The other man’s eyes are half-lidded, his furrowed brow the only indication that he’s still awake. That and the hammering heartbeat Ferdinand can feel beneath his palm, which he’d placed upon Hubert’s chest to help steady his breathing. 

“Hubert,” he whispers, leaning over to be heard. “Do you think you can stand?”

Hubert groans and opens his yellow-flecked eyes. 

“I must. I don’t have much choice,” he says. 

“Well, I could always carry you,” Ferdinand suggests playfully. Though he says it because he knows the other would rather die than allow such a humiliation, he finds he’s at least half serious about the offer. 

Hubert, as predicted, is mortified at the prospect. 

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses and makes a show of trying to sit up on his own, wincing in the process. 

“Alright, alright,” Ferdinand chuckles. Despite Hubert’s protests, he wraps the other’s left arm around his shoulders and heaves the both of them onto their feet. 

For all of Hubert’s determination not to rely on Ferdinand for support, he seems silently grateful to have someone to lean his weight on. The two of them find that Hubert cannot bear to place his right foot on the ground and, therefore, must hobble on his left while Ferdinand keeps him steady. 

The lingering pain and subsequent strain becomes evident on Hubert’s face after they cross a few docs. His breath staggers, and Ferdinand can feel the trembles in his body. 

“Hubert, why don’t we rest a bit,” Ferdinand murmurs, tugging his friend over to one of the steel crates next to them. 

Hubert shakes his head stubbornly, and a twinge of guilt settles in Ferdinand’s chest. The sight of Hubert suffering this much is excruciating. Especially because he knows, deep down, that it’s his fault. If he hadn’t sought out Hubert’s attention and so selfishly drawn him away from his target—

Hubert’s left knee gives out and he pitches forward, though Ferdinand catches him instantly. His grip tightens around Hubert’s waist, and he drags the both of them to the crate where he hoists Hubert onto it. 

“I’m so sorry, my friend. This shouldn’t have happened,” Ferdinand starts, absently brushing Hubert’s hair back and resting his hands on Hubert’s shoulders. “If only I hadn’t—“

Hubert shakes his head. 

“The fault lies with me,” he replies, gaze downcast, sounding almost defeated.

“Nonsense,” Ferdinand counters. “I was the one who distracted you without regard to the situation.”

“And I allowed myself to be distracted,” Hubert sighs. “I should be better than that.”

The utterly downtrodden, no,  _ guilt ridden  _ look that overtakes Hubert’s features makes Ferdinand’s heart ache. It’s simply too difficult to see the normally smug and reserved man he knows almost too well condescend himself in such a manner. 

So he tries to lighten the mood. 

“Are you sure about that?” he asks, donning a teasing smirk. “Perhaps you are not as good a shadow as you think. After all, I can always spot you easily on stakeouts.”

Hubert looks up and meets his eyes at that, though his lips are pressed together solemnly instead of curling into his borderline cruel smile that often precedes a retort. 

Why Ferdinand’s heart is now beating louder than a bass drum, he cannot fathom. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Hubert says steadily. “If I were a better shadow, I would not waste my time hiding where I know you will find me. So you know I’m there. With you.”

Ferdinand’s breath stutters, and he momentarily forgets how to breathe. 

_ What? _

He opens and closes his mouth several times as his brain attempts to string together thoughts that actually make sense. 

“What...what are you saying, Hubert?” he asks tentatively, heart thumping thunderously in his throat. 

For the first time since he’d been struck, color returns to Hubert’s face, darkening his cheeks and the tips of his ears. 

“You said you distracted me. But I am  _ always _ distracted by you, Ferdinand, whether you mean it or not,” Hubert says softly, though his gaze is heart-piercing. “And I hate it with every fiber of my being.”

Ferdinand sucks in a breath, holding it in until it hurts. This attempt to jumpstart his brain fails, and all he can feel of his corporal is his heart threatening to burst out of his chest as he has a million revelations all at once. 

“Oh, I am a fool,” he breathes. 

Then he cups Hubert’s jaw with both his hands and kisses him. 

And kisses him. And kisses him. 

Hubert fists Ferdinand’s suit. Tilts his head. 

And kisses him. 

Ferdinand runs his fingers through coiffed hair. Grins and nips his bottom lip. 

And kisses him amidst the still waters and twinkling lights of a peaceful Enbarr. 

* * *

Caspar slides his bedroom window open as slowly as he can, cringing when it creaks anyway. All of this is actually pretty unnecessary, as Linhardt has pointed out many times. There’s no reason Caspar can’t just use their front door—it’s not like he’s keeping his nightly activities a secret or anything. 

But Caspar always insists this is part of the experience. That, and there’s no good place to keep his house keys in his supersuit. It’s made for efficient crime-fighting, after all! A supersuit with pockets is practically unheard of. 

He vaults himself onto the windowsill and swings his legs over, then slides his window shut. Sighing, he takes a minute to slump against the cool glass and catch his breath. Caspar is still pretty shaken from the events of the night, but he knows it will do him no good to continue to worry or ponder through hypotheticals. Especially the one where it could have been him who got electrocuted. 

Oh, Linhardt would have had his head. 

Speaking of, Caspar spots the silhouette of his husband sprawled across their queen-sized bed like he owns the whole thing, and smiles. They’ve been married about a year—ever since Linhardt “retired” from his superhero life—and Caspar still can never get used to the way his heart swells at how he gets to come home to someone he loves. To someone who loves him. 

“Lin. Hey Lin,” he whispers, having tiptoed over to the side of their bed. Gently, he jostles Linhardt’s bare shoulder. 

Linhardt is the heaviest sleeper known to mankind, and Caspar has needed to get creative in the past to wake the man up. But he always seems to wake easily on the nights Caspar is out late. Almost like he’s waiting. 

Caspar feels his heart race and energy thrum through every nerve in his body when Linhardt drowsily opens his eyes. This will never stop being the most beautiful sight. 

“Caspar?” Linhardt slurs and groggily reaches up to pat Caspar’s face. 

Caspar takes Linhardt’s hand and steadies it across his cheek. 

“Yep! In the flesh!” he replies, grinning widely. “And it’s only midnight.”

“It’s past 1:30 in the morning, you dolt,” Linhardt retorts.

“Aww, Lin,” Caspar coos, leaning over to press his lips to his husband’s forehead. “You been waiting for me, babe?”

Linhardt sighs under the kiss, then turns to press his face into the pillow. 

“I always wait for you, Caspar,” he mumbles so quietly, Caspar almost misses it. 

Caspar swallows and laces his calloused fingers through Linhardt’s long and slender ones. Linhardt is trying to hide it, but Caspar can guess he’s probably wearing the same expression that had been on Ferdinand’s face not long ago. 

One of pure and unbridled worry. A fear that subsides too slowly for comfort. 

“I...I know, Lin,” Caspar manages. “And I’m sorry I make you wait.”

This prompts Linhardt to stir out of the remaining dredges of his sleep and sit up, frowning. 

“Caspar?” he asks, cupping Caspar’s jaw in one hand and running the other through mussed blue hair. “Is everything alright? Are you hurt?”

“Heh, I’m fine, I promise,” Caspar replies quickly, lest he worry Linhardt further. “I just...never realized how much I put you through. Staying out so late, acting like I’m invincible when I’m not.”

Caspar looks up to meet Linhardt’s eyes and squeezes the hand on his cheek. 

“That’s why I came home early today, Lin. Or well, tried to. And I’m going to keep trying, okay? I promise.”

Linhardt is silent for a moment, studying Caspar’s face before bringing it to his, resting their foreheads against each other. 

“Oh Caspar,” he sighs, breath quivering. “Thank you. For trying. But I...I know this is important to you.”

He leans back just enough so that the tips of their noses brush, and Caspar thinks he sees Linhardt’s eyes glisten. 

“I just don’t want to wake up one day and see that you never came home.” 

Caspar hangs his head, ashamed that it had taken him this long to understand Linhardt’s reactions to his late night crime-fighting. He grips Linhardt’s hand tighter, though to comfort Linhardt or tether himself, he’s not sure. 

“I can’t promise that won’t ever happen, Lin,” he says quietly and truthfully. “But I promise you, I’ll fight all of Hell itself before I let that happen.”

He looks back up, blinding blue eyes blazing with conviction. 

Linhardt laughs at that and wipes a stray tear from the corner of his eye. 

“I know, Caspar. That’s why I love you.”

There’s that swelling feeling again, the one where Caspar’s heart is ready to soar like a hot air balloon on the sunniest of days. 

“Love you too, Linhardt.” 

At that, Linhardt tugs him into their bed with what little strength he has left to muster, and Caspar complies. He doesn’t care that he’s still in his supersuit as he presses soft kisses to his husband’s lips, his cheeks, his fingertips, his temple. As if to convince him that he’s safe as obnoxiously and lovingly as possible. 

And the two of them fall asleep in the comfort of the other’s arms, the city lights dimming one by one as the city of Enbarr decides that it, too, is safe to rest another night. 


	2. epilogue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Druid, Brigid's friendly neighborhood superhero, enjoys a night at Enbarr's esteemed opera house. And a few other perks afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my friends! thanks so much for all your support on this AU. i'm so excited to share with you this doropetra epilogue--writing it made me too giddy for words. i hope you enjoy!

The Mittelfrank Opera House never ceases to take Petra’s breath away. Known to the world outside Adrestia as a diamond amongst the coal of industry—well, okay maybe only known as such to Brigidians. After all, it seems only Brigid considers Adrestia industrious while much of Fodlan and beyond sees it as an antiquity to preserved amidst the plumes of Faerghus’s ever churning energy reactors and Leicester’s fascination with pushing the boundaries of physics and technology. 

However, Brigid is but a small harbor island full of pride in its historical ability to resist the push of “civilization” from Adrestia and Dagda from time to time. So it has little regard left for the state of the rest of Fodlan. 

Anyway, the point is that Enbarr has always tugged at Petra’s interest, and quite literally at that. 

Brigidians have a special and sacred relationship with nature, and Petra more so what with her ability to speak with the Earth and all. In Brigid, this leaves her with a feeling of plentiful--so in tune with the roots of the land and call of the sea that she is like an ever-blooming, ripe field ready for harvest. 

But in Enbarr, where nature is an afterthought, an optional hobby or decoration, Petra feels that pull more sharply, as if each thread between her and the Earth is in high-definition. The ivy quietly creeping across forgotten buildings reach for her to be remembered again. The windowsill plants and indoor succulents call her in excitement, to touch a piece of the Earthy they have never known but still consider home.

Petra loves answering these calls. Though she has to admit, as she perches delicately on one of the massive chandeliers adorning the interior of the Mittlefrank Opera House, that there has been something else, something different, pulling her towards Enbarr recently. 

That something else stands on the massive stage of gleaming, polished wood with her arms outstretched as she beckons the audience to fall in love with her. The siren of the opera she is often called, her voice luring spectators into a trance that leaves them on their feet in a standing ovation at the end. 

Petra can see how the sobriquet applies, but considers Dorothea Arnault more of a morning lark--singing lovingly and sweetly at the sun, uncaring of how many wake with full hearts to her song.

Regardless of whichever fits the most, it’s clear just how many hearts Dorothea has reached for the opera house is packed to the seams. The lights of the chandeliers are dim enough that Petra can see every single seat is filled, and each occupant completely entranced by Dorothea singing a lament for a lost love. 

This time, Petra feels a different kind of pull, though coming from nowhere in particular. She’s felt it a few other times before, and seemingly only when she crashes a night at the opera. After dissecting and studying it during sleepless nights in her bed, she’s come to recognize it as  _ jealousy.  _

She is jealous that she is not the only one who loves Dorothea. 

Which is probably why her heartbeat quickens and stomach twiss with a selfish sort of satisfaction when she realizes that Dorothea seems a little distracted tonight. Though her performance is as flawless as ever, she spends her idle moments on stage scanning the crowd, hopefulness adorning her features. 

Dorothea has hundreds come to offer her their souls, and she searches only for Petra. 

Petra blushes deeply, a heat creeping up the back of her neck. Though she sits hidden from the rest of the opera-goers, she is still glad for her mask. 

On stage, Dorothea falls to her knees in a rather dramatic manner, voice quivering with her tears as it decrescendos to the last, low note, signaling the bitter end of her lament and the opera. 

The heavy brocade curtains fall like a whisper through the dense, stunned silence. The calm before the thunderous applause that shakes the very foundations of the opera house. Petra has to precariously maintain her balance on the shuddering chandelier as she, too, gives into the fervor gripping her in the aftermath of Dorothea’s performance. 

In that moment she stands, not against, but in solidarity with every single patron who has also lost their hearts to the lark of the Mittelfrank Opera. 

It’s several minutes before the opera attendees begin to usher out of their seats. There had been multiple bows from the cast, repeated calls for an encore, and dozens upon dozens of flowers thrust upon stage. Petra has snuck into a full opera house enough times that all of this is routine, and she patiently waits it out with a heart full of Dorothea’s glowing smile. 

Petra can’t help but wonder, in these moments, when exactly it was that her heart truly stopped belonging to her. She’s a little too practical for love at first sight, but she’s not sure she can remember a day when she wasn’t pulled in Dorothea’s direction. 

Dorothea, aside from being Enbarr’s resident starlet, is a normal citizen. Yet, she’d managed to work her way into the lives of the city’s superheroes. They’d been introduced sometime over a year ago, back before Linhardt’s “retirement.”

Hubert, mayor Edelgard von Hresvelg’s right hand and their occasional ally, had approached them with a conundrum. It seemed that in Mayor Hresvelg’s diligence to cleanse the city of its former corruption, the two had discovered a disturbing connection between the opera house and Adrestia’s underworld. Further (illegal) investigation on Hubert’s part revealed that none other than the mayor’s uncle was responsible for using the opera as a front for extortion, money laundering, and drug trafficking. Activities all sustained through blackmailing and threatening the institution’s management, including its former star and beloved owner Manuela Casagranda. 

Due to the identity of the perpetrator and previous political power struggles, Mayor Hresvelg had decided that it was best not to involve the city’s police force--best to leave it to those who were unabashedly loyal to the city.

Hubert had come to them as a last resort--he finally had a strong and decisive whistleblower the city could use to publicly prosecute the criminals; but her life was in danger due to the nature of the case, and his resources were spread thin. 

Well. Technically, he had come to Ferdinand, who, in true Ferdinand fashion, took it on himself to single handedly act a the witness’s protection. Only to find that she harbored an extreme dislike for him and refused to cooperate.

Enter Caspar, Linhardt, and Petra. 

The whole thing had resulted in two weeks of rotating watch duty amongst the four of them, bt Petra had soon started to look forward to her shifts. 

Dorothea was, by no means, a quiet person. She always found a way to rouse one from the depths of oneself. She bickered into a camaraderie with Ferdinand, adopted Caspar as family, and helped Linhardt discover that he quite enjoyed falling asleep while being sung to. 

But for all that Dorothea was a normal civilian, Petra cold see that she wore a mask like the rest of them. And she had wanted nothing more than to untie it with her fingers and slip it away to reveal the true Dorothea. 

The silence of the now empty Mittlefrank Opera House is much more deafening after the extended uproar, and it beckons Petra out of her stupor. Calling upon the ivy that adorns the brick facade of the older portions of the building, Petra kicks off from her perch on the chandelier and steers herself gracefully across the lattices of the lights, cree walkways, and wires strewn across the ceiling above the stage. 

Petra has only been behind the scenes once, and that too with Dorothea leading her blindfolded to the green room. So she’s completely unprepared to navigate the labyrinth that is backstage.Traipsing over props, equipment, and strewn-about costumes, Petra consumes almost a half an hour before relenting that, when Dorothea had invited her to come find her after the show, Petra should have clarified exactly where. 

  
  


Curse that foolish heart of hers. 

But an idea strikes her, and she thinks not all hope is lost. Petra quickly disentangles herself from the mob of half-full paint cans and haphazardly placed roller-brushes, once again calling upon the ivy and climbing towards the ceiling. 

The ivy creeps into the building via one of the skylights of the older part of the building, and Petra uses this same entryway as her exit--onto the roof of the brick-walled annex behind the Mittlefrank Opera House. 

Thankfully, Petra knows exactly where the actors’ entrance is, having met Dorothea in that alleyway in the past to escort her home. She figures there’s no better place to wait, hoping she’s not too late. 

She’s sitting on the ledge overlooking the alley, swinging her legs in tandem with the tune she’s humming--a song by a Brigidian folk artist she’d just heard on the radio--when the door to the actors’ entrance creaks open. 

It’s actually the fifth time it’s opened, but this time Petra’s breath catches in her throat because she just knows it’s Dorothea. 

The lark of the opera emerges into the night like the moon revealed behind clouds, shivering slightly and buttoning up her coat. Then she pauses, looks around her, and cranes her neck to the sky. 

“There you are, Druid!” she exclaims, a wide smile lighting up her face when she spots Petra. “I thought it was a little odd to smell wild jasmine in the city.”

Petra resumes swinging her legs and laughs. “You think I smell of wild jasmine?”

“Well, something smells of wild jasmine. And I know you prefer to tend to the jasmine in your garden the most at home.”

A blushed sparked out of fondness dusts Petra’s cheeks. 

“You remember that?”

“Of course! I remember everything you tell me, Druid. And speaking of,” Dorothea scrunches her nose in a playful frown, though Petra can see it masks a different emotion, “I didn’t see you in the crowd tonight. I was afraid you’d forgotten.”

Petra stills and shakes her head. 

“It is a good thing, then, that I too remember everything you say,” she replies softly. “But the opera house was full. I could not find even a spot to stand in. So I watched from the chandelier.”

Dorothea’s eyes widen at the very idea, and she bursts into a laughter that is a sweet melody to Petra’s ears. 

“You sat on the chandelier? I suppose it must have been quite a view,” Dorothea muses, eyes glinting with amusement. “But you know, I could have gotten you proper tickets. I just don’t know how to reach you, I suppose.”

At this, Dorothea looks thoughtful, and Petra uses her distraction out ride out a familiar sense of shame. 

For all that she’d wanted to unmask Dorothea, she’s never once removed her own. 

And oh how she’s wanted to. Open herself up to Dorothea and lay bare her soul as one would to the Flame Spirit in an act of cleansing and rebirth. Dorothea is no purifying flame, but she has a fiery gaze that cuts right through Petra. She knows Petra in all but name. 

Such is the isolation that no one prepares you for in the life of a supehero. 

“Druid?”

Dorothea’s voice tugs Petra out of her guilt, her face wearing an expression of concern. 

“Is something the matter?”

Petra shakes her head. “I was simply thinking.”

Dorothea cocks her head to the side. 

“About what?”

Petra studies the other’s face. The weather has shifted, and a cool drizzle begins to fall, the drops catching on Dorothea’s eyelashes and rosy cheeks like tears. Briefly, Petra is reminded of the opera’s final scene where Dorothea’s voice had faded, heavy with sorrow before the curtain fell. 

“Dorothea,” she starts, silently beckoning the ivy up her legs and over her knees. Petra tilts forward and allows gravity to pull her off the ledge. The ivy catches her, and she hands upside down by the vines, slowly descending until her eyes meet Dorothea’s. “At the end, why does your character fall to her knees? She laments her lost lover, but admits she is now free from the binds of love. Is she afraid of freedom?”

The question catches Dorothea off guard, her lips parting in surprise. Then she smiles, this one small and utterly naked of facade. 

The first time Petra saw that smile, she felt as though she’d left her body. As if coaxing out the real Dorothea took a piece of her as a bargain. Dorothea smiles like this a lot more now in Petra’s presence, and Petra is only too aware of how much of herself she’s given in return. 

“No, it’s not freedom she is afraid of, Dorothea responds, stepping forward, voice delicate in the soft rain. “She is afraid that to be free is to be alone. To be free of, and therefore isolated from the world around her, now that she has no tether.”

“But is she not free to find a new purpose in life now? Something else to commit herself to?” Petra presses. 

“I suppose she is,” Dorothea cedes. “But as good as purpose is to fuel the brain for decades, her heart has little use for it. Not when it has tasted love, only to be left behind in the mortal world by its soulmate. It’s almost like a grief rooted in betrayal.”

Petra remains silent, blinking the water drops out of her eyes so she can drink in Dorothea’s wistful, almost resigned, expression. Her heart skips a beat. 

“Are you afraid of being alone, Dorothea?”

Dorothea hesitates, eyes flitting to the ground even as she takes another step forward. 

“I think...there are many ways to be alone,” she begins, eyes meeting Petra’s again. “But I am afraid that no one will ever truly know my heart.”

This time, Petra cocks her head, though it feels awkward to do so while hanging upside down. 

“But there are so many who love you. Your heart can know hundreds.”

Dorothea takes another step, now only a few inches from Petra’s face. Petra feels silly about staring at Dorothea’s inverted form, but doesn’t try to rectify it. She has little motivation to move from under Dorothea’s gaze. 

“Sometimes,” Dorothea replies, voice softer than Petra has ever heard it, “the love of one outshines that of even thousands.”

Petra doesn’t know what to say to that, and even if she did, she couldn’t have spoken. Not when Dorothea’s warmth has her forgetting how to breathe.

“I’m really glad you came,” Dorothea murmurs. “Knowing you’re there always puts me at ease.”

Without thinking, Petra reaches out and brushes a damp lock of hair out of the other’s face.

“I will always be there,” she replies with a conviction she didn’t know she had, but feels natural all the same. “Even if you cannot see me.”

The rain starts to fall more freely now, but neither pay attention. There is a breath between the two of them, and only one has to be courageous enough to take it before the plunge.

“Druid,” Dorothea breathes, bringing a slender hand to Petra’s face, fingertips skimming the dark pink mask. “May I?”

And that ghost of a touch is electrifying, more of a pull at Petra’s soul than even the Earth has managed. The urge to come clean, to cleanse this space of Druid and Dorothea and start anew, is too great to ignore. 

So to hell with superhero etiquette. Who is she to follow the illogical customs of Adrestia, anyway?

“Petra,” she whispers. 

Dorothea stills, her face flitting through several emotions before settling on pure elation. She delicately slips the tips of her fingers under the mask and drags it down so that it sits on above Petra’s forehead. 

The superhero shed and cast aside, she smiles at Dorothea for the first time as Petra. 

“Petra,” Dorothea says, drawing it out as if cherishing every vowel.

Then kisses her, hands returning to cup Petra’s cheeks, the pull between them finally satisfied. It’s an incredibly odd kiss, upside down and wet with raindrops, but Petra has never felt so full, so  _ whole _ in her life. As if she’s reconnecting with all the pieces she’d offered of herself, discovering that they were stowed away safely in Dorothea’s heart the whole time. 

And as Dorothea pulls back a hair only for Petra to swing forward and reclaim her lips, somewhere further down the coastline, a man in a bright orange suit is carrying a man shrouded in black. The man in black rests his head peacefully against the bright one’s chest, indulging in a sense of comfort he has never allowed himself. 

And as Dorothea traces her thumbs across Petra’s exposed cheeks, kissing up her jawline, a green-haired man slumbers peacefully in the embrace of the love he feels he has known for eternity. Even if that love still wears a bright blue, white, and rather smelly uniform. 

Enbarr is a city that is loved. A city that is protected. And tonight, it repays its heroes by washing away the burden of masking their hearts. 

_ Fin.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's a superhero AU without the spiderman kiss? allowing doropetra that honor never felt so RIGHT. 
> 
> i hope your hearts are as full as mine, and thank you very much for indulging in this AU with me. You can find me on [ twitter! ](http://twitter.com/sunshinejock)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Ferdinand's power is similar to Green Lantern's, with the ability to create weapon constructs from a ring that harnesses sunlight. Caspar can manipulate his body's kinetic and potential energy, physics be damned. Petra can call on nature of all types, the implication here that she actually surfs waves to reach Enbarr. Marianne can call upon animals. How does she get to Enbarr from Edmund so quickly? By catching a ride with some giant mountain eagles, of course.
> 
> 2\. Linhardt "retired" from being a superhero by faking the death of his superhero persona. When asked if he regrets it, his answer is "no."
> 
> 3\. Caspar named himself. He hijacked a newscast when he first debuted and declared himself "the Fist of Justice." 
> 
> 4\. There will be a Doropetra epilogue :)
> 
> You can find me on [ twitter! ](http://twitter.com/sunshinejock)


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